


And miles to go (before I sleep)

by ForErusSake



Series: Here comes the sun (the morning star) [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt, Post-Kinslaying at Alqualondë, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 06:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake
Summary: When Finarfin turned around and forsook the march he didn't know what he would return to, he didn't know what awaited him in the darkness, and if his wife would ever forgive him. In darkness he turned back, he retraced his steps to Alqualondë and then to Tirion, but he still has many miles to go before the darkness will come to an end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a follow-up to "The last son", but can stand on its own.
> 
> The woods are lovely  
> Dark and deep  
> But I have promises to keep  
> And miles to go before I sleep  
> And miles to go before I sleep  
> \- Robert Frost -

He was exhausted.

He hadn’t slept for a long time. Not since the Oath, since they had left Tirion.

He had a headache, he was dizzy, his feet were sore, but no matter how tired and uncomfortable he was, nothing could drown out the heartache, the deep despair, and the weariness that had settled in his bones and pulled on his limbs.

As he walked on and on in the darkness, his people, equally tired and heartsick, dragging behind him, Arafinwë tried not to think of his brothers. He tried not to think of proud, desperate Fëanáro on his ships, the Telerin ships, sailing towards his doom with his head held high. He tried not to think of brave, stupid Nolofinwë marching along the coast to Eru knows where trying to prove his worth to Eru knows whom. He tried not to think of his children, walking in the dark, on their way to a place they didn’t know, and he tried to forget that they might not survive the journey at all.

He had tried to persuade them to turn back, but it had been of no use. He had talked to them, spoken with his brother and his children in tones ranging from quiet pleading to desperate yelling. He had tried to persuade all of them to turn back with him.

“Nolofinwë, please, this is madness,” he had said, his voice soft, but tinged with desperation. His brother had looked at him with those piercing, regal, blue eyes of his, the bottomless pools he remembered staring into as an infant, his first memory, and he had looked straight into his older  brother’s mind. It had felt like he was tumbling into the abyss, into an endless world of blue, fleeting images whirling past him, memories of happier times, but most of all of the horrors of the recent past… _“See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue…” The Máhahaxar… Formenos… “Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart I will be…” Darkness…_ _Atar… dead…_ _burned to cinders defending the Silmarils… “This swear we all: death we will deal him, ere days ending…” Blood staining the sand and Findekáno’s sword…_ He had felt feelings of hurt, of betrayal, of endless loyalty and of deep trust. He had picked up on thoughts, thoughts of love, of companionship, of bitter lies, and of burning vengeance, incandescent flames flaring, blistering, blue as the sapphires of Nolofinwë’s eyes. _Full brother in heart… are you not mine, Nolofinwë? Will you not stay with me?_ He tried to grab on to his brother’s memories, but they whirled past too fast, he tried to take a hold of his feelings, pulling on them, like on a rope, climbing. _Nolofinwë… please…_ He kept pulling, hoping that his brother, his loyal, brave, stupid brother would see reason. Engulfed in a sea of endless blue, Arafinwë saw him. Older, stronger, weathered by time and experience, his eyes ablaze with fury, burning like the pits of the Iron Fortress whose doors his flaming gaze was locked on, screaming, _calling out…_ _“Thou foe of Gods and elvish race, I wait thee here, come, show thy face!”_ Falling, endlessly falling. _His madness does not have to be yours… It doesn’t have to… Nolofinwë… You don’t have to die…_

“Ingoldo, get out of my mind!” Nolofinwë had yelled.

“At least one of us has to listen to it!” He had responded and stormed out of the tent. Leaving his brother and their children staring after him, not knowing that that argument would be the last conversation they would have.

_I need you… please don’t leave me here alone… I don’t want you to die…_

He hadn’t listened. None had listened, and now he was alone.

In a way, he had always been alone. Even in the palace in Tirion, surrounded by his family, even during his years as an apprentice smith, surrounded by other students, even when his parents took him to visit Ilmarin on Taniquetil as a child, surrounded by all fourteen Valar, he had felt alone. Alone in a crowd, existing, but not truly living, being, but not being himself, trying to be noticed, to be special, to be like his brothers, but never succeeding. And now, with his people walking behind him, following him, in his mind only because they had no one else to follow, he felt more alone than he had ever felt before.  

He had always been different. Different from the people around him, weird, unconventional. Sometimes others had even been scared of him.

It had started with his hair. Golden. The colour of his mother, of the Vanyar. The colour no true Noldo had. Other children had shunned him for it, called him names, laughed at him. Nolofinwë had never understood why he let them. _“You are a prince of Eldamar, do something about it, tell them off!”_ He never had.

Fëanáro had been kind to him at first, he had tried to help Arafinwë. He had stood up for him. Until someday he stopped, for seemingly no reason. He started ignoring his youngest brother, and later he started joining in with the bullies. In the end, the worst insults he had endured had not come from children his age, but from Fëanáro. _Damn Vanyarin bastard…_ Nolofinwë too had stood up for him, but he had had his studies to complete, he had found new friends at the Academy and in the Halls of Aulë, and soon the second prince of the Noldor wasn’t around anymore to stand up for his younger brother. _“You have to stand up for yourself, Ingo.”_ He never had, not with words at least, and Nolofinwë never realized how much using his mother-name hurt Arafinwë.

_Ingoldo… don’t forget, you’ll never be one of us…_

He had never defended himself with words. While unlike people often thought, he was good with words, a phenomenal debater even, he had never much liked it. He had always preferred silence, or music at the most. He liked words to have meaning, and as a young prince, growing up in his father’s court, he quickly realized that most of the time, there was no true meaning to people’s words. They were just words, spoken purely for the sake of making noise. He quickly learned that there were other ways to speak. Ways that were silent.

He had always been able to hear things. Things others couldn’t hear. Things people spoke about to themselves, where no one could hear it but them. Or so they thought.

As a toddler, he heard the silent reflections of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting. _Look at him, he has his mother’s hair and his father’s eyes… Isn’t he sweet? He has a piercing gaze for one so young… How odd…_ He heard the frustrated ruminations of the head librarian. _Where did I leave that book? It must be somewhere around here… What’s that child doing here? Is that my book he’s holding? Can he read it, at his age? How odd…_ He heard the thoughtful contemplations of his father in his study. _Should I increase the subsidy for the carpenters’ guild now, or wait another year? By how much do I need to increase taxes to finance the restorations on the West Gate? I mustn’t forget to inform the council of my decision regarding last meeting’s discussion… How long has Arafinwë been sitting there? Shouldn’t he be out playing, like children his age do? How odd…_

_How odd…_

_How odd…_

_How odd…_

The older he got the more he heard. Fragments of thoughts of people in the same room as him turned into strings of thought of the servants in the hallways, turned into the internal monologues of Fëanáro in another wing of the palace, turned into the constant, inescapable buzz of the thoughts of the people of Tirion.

He listened, and he listened, and he listened in silence. Until the thoughts of others resonating in his skull drowned out his own and he couldn’t take it anymore.

He listened, and listened, and listened, and he could not stop it, until one day he spoke.

Others had been making fun of him again. They had learned they could because Arafinwë never did anything to stop them. He hadn’t meant to stop them, but the insults they used that day were so cruel, their disdainful thoughts so loud, that he had no choice. He tried to ignore them as he always did, he tried to run, but he couldn’t. Not that day.

When they closed in on him, their poisonous words and thoughts pushing down on him, crushing him, drowning him, choking him. _Stupid Vanya, weak-willed, witless infant, useless, powerless, worthless excuse for a prince, that dares to call itself a Noldo, dim-witted harlot, son of that Vanyarin whore!_

He lashed out.

He didn’t know what came over him. He didn’t remember much of the incident afterwards, except that he lashed out, with all his might. He didn’t touch them, he was sure of that, though others, _liars_ , later said otherwise. He vaguely remembers whispering something, a word, a sentence, _á quildë_ , **be quiet** , and they were.

According to other people’s accounts, his assaulters had staggered back, clutching their heads as if in terrible pain, crying out for him to stop. He remembered the silent screams, as he ripped at their minds with all the power he had, taught them what it was like for him, what it was like to be hurt without being touched, what it was like to scream for help in a silent language no one else understood.

He had _heard_ the healers’ accounts. _The children wouldn’t have survived if Prince Fëanáro had not stepped in. I do not know what your son did to them, but you should keep an eye on him, your Majesty, make sure he does not do it again._

They concluded that he simply had an extraordinary gift for the use of ósanwë, that he had used it to lash out at the other children because he had been under extreme stress. His father sent him away from the city for a while to calm down and that was the end of it. The other children bothered him less afterwards. He had scared them. The incident was soon forgotten by everyone else, but Arafinwë remembered. He had learned what he could do that day, that he wasn’t powerless. He listened, he learned, and he never forgot.

As he walked on and on in the darkness, the light of the stars above shining eerily down on the sandy road in front of him, Arafinwë tried to understand. He tried to understand why, after years and years of fighting to be noticed, to have a place in his brothers’ lives, to be loved, he had turned his back on them, and on his children, and for what? He didn’t know what awaited him in Eldamar. He had thrown away the last bit of certainty in his life, the comforting presence of Nolofinwë and his children, in the vain hope that those who remained, his wife, his mother, his father-in-law, would fill the gaping hole in his chest. But with every step he took, he was less certain that they would be there for him, and more certain that he would, once again, be alone.

For all that they were traveling with a large group, they weren’t companions, not really. They were all Noldor. They had seen the same horrors, done the same things, felt the same pain, but even so, their group was not really a group at all. There was no talking like there had been when they were still going in the opposite direction. There were children crying, but their parents, at least those parents who were still among them, who had not thrust their children into the arms of the strangers who had stayed behind, following Nolofinwë and his people on into the darkness, those parents made no move to quiet their children. It was as if a part of them, a part of their soul, had left for Endorë with their kin, and had left them numb to everything around them. Numb to everything but their own misery.

Arafinwë, too, had closed himself off. He found himself calmed by the silence. Despite how exhausted he was, he could think more clearly now than he had been able to since they had left Tirion.

He had always liked silence, though it had been difficult to find it from time to time. When he learned to speak with his thoughts, he also learned to close himself off a bit. The buzz of the city wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been before. But when the thoughts became quieter, the visions came. First, they only came in his sleep, dreams of everyday life that would play out in the exact same way the next day. Then they became more intrusive, more intense, causing him to wake up in cold sweat with a silent scream on his lips. He slept less, but he could handle that. People noticed sometimes when he was really tired and fell asleep during his lessons or in his father’s court, but they attributed it to his studies becoming more demanding as he grew older. He learned to deal with the prophetic dreams, he learned to control them a little, and he slept better. He didn’t have visions every night anymore. He thought he had it under control. Until he didn’t, and they started coming during the day. The visions were accompanied by headaches that could last for days and made him dizzy and nauseous and sensitive to light and sound and touch. He could hide it at first, lock himself in his room, feigning exhaustion, and people left him alone until it happened during a meeting of his father’s privy council.

All three princes were sometimes asked to attend such a meeting. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were asked more often than he, which he didn’t really mind. That day all three princes had been asked to come. He had been in the middle of a rousing speech when he had doubled over in pain, dropping his written notes and grasping his head.

He vaguely remembered Nolofinwë calling out his name in a concerned tone of voice before his mind went blank, and all sensation of the present was drowned out by that of the future.

When he awoke in his own bed hours later with a throbbing headache, not knowing how he’d even got there, he couldn’t remember exactly what he had _seen_ , and when Nolofinwë came in to check on him not ten minutes later, his brother could only tell him it must’ve been something frightening.

He described how after his initial reaction to the pain Arafinwë had simply frozen up, an expression of sheer terror on his face, his eyes wide open, pupils dilated, every muscle in his body pulled taut like the strings on a harp.  Nolofinwë told him it had taken about fifteen minutes for the images to subside after which he had collapsed into an exhausted sleep and Nolofinwë had carried him to his bed.

It happened many more times after that, though it was never as bad as it had been that day. Most of his visions merely stopped him in his tracks for a minute, leaving a sharp, throbbing headache in their wake that made it difficult for him to concentrate on anything for the rest of the day.

His parents barely noticed their youngest son’s pain, but Nolofinwë worried about him, and desperate to help his little brother he sent a letter to the Valar, asking them for aid.

To his surprise lord Irmo and lady Estë wrote him back.

It took much to convince their parents, but eventually, they allowed Arafinwë to move to Lórien for a year, where he became lord Irmo’s patient. A week into his stay the healers stopped referring to him as such, calling him lord Irmo’s apprentice instead.

In a year, the Master of Dreams and Visions taught him how to control his visions, how to guide them in any direction he wanted them to go. The Vala taught him how to close his mind to the incessant buzz of other people’s thoughts. Under the tutelage of Irmo, Arafinwë found a piece of himself that he hadn’t known had been missing.

He returned to Tirion with a quiet confidence he had previously lacked, and a new resolution, to never let people walk over him again like they had in the past, not even his parents.

A month later he announced his betrothal to Eärwen.

He dragged on in the darkness, not knowing what would greet him at the end of the road, and for the first time in his life, the waves lapping at his boots didn’t bring him comfort. The usually calming sound of the water washing up on the shore now sounded threatening to his ears. _Coward, traitor,_ _murderer_ , the waves seemed to scream at him.

Those same waves had once greeted him joyfully when he woke every morning when he and Eärwen had lived in their house by the sea.

When Findaráto, his first son, was born the sea had been the first to meet him.

For years the sea had been his anchor, providing him with comfort and a listening ear as he shared with it all his joy and sorrow.

When Fëanáro first showed his family the Silmarils, and Arafinwë had gotten his first horrific vision of the dreadful catastrophe that awaited them in the near future, the sea had brought him calm and comfort where no one else, not even his beloved wife could.

When he awoke deep in the night, screaming in terror, images of burning ships and a broken city seared into spirit, Eärwen had held him until he fell asleep again, and it was then that he first realized that he didn’t need to hear the sea to be comforted, because Eärwen _was_ the sea, and she was always there in his mind and spirit. That morning he had clutched her to him, swearing to himself that he would never let her go.

Like he had held his beloved that day, he was now clutching an elfling to his chest as he marched along the beach down a seemingly endless road. For the first time since they got married, he couldn’t feel Eärwen through their bond, as if she, like the sea, had closed herself to him. So instead he focused on the child in his arms, a child whose name he didn’t know, who had been left behind by her parents, without anyone to care for her. Arafinwë had seen her standing on the beach, lost, and he had lifted her up into his arms. She had latched onto him and refused to let him go.

He pulled her close as if she might disappear at any moment, as if the sea would suddenly rise up and crash down on them and take her away, take them all away, like Eärwen had taken herself away from him, and leave him standing lost and broken on the beach. They were all lost, his children, he, the rest of the Noldor, and he did not know if his beloved wife would ever forgive him.

Eärwen had always made fun of the fiery spirits of the Noldor, their passion, their lack of restraint and self-preservation. Arafinwë had always recognized her jokes for what they were, a way for her to relieve herself of the fear that ate at her from deep inside that the ones she loved would one day we swept up in that fiery passion and be led to ruin by it.

She was and always would be a lone Teler surrounded by a family of Noldor.

 _Was he though? Was he really a Noldo?_ The prince who had the hair and hands of the Vanyar, spoke the language and sung the songs of the Teleri, of the Lindar, and preferred the crafts of either of those clans over those of his own. This prince who had been too Vanyarin and not Noldorin enough to earn his father’s love, but had not been enough of either for his mother’s. This prince who had never fit in, and had taken the first opportunity he could find to get away from the city of his birth, away from his people, to live amongst a people he had always thought he was more like.

Eärwen, however, had always seen the Noldo in him. She was the only one who could call him Ingoldo without it hurting. It didn’t matter that he spoke Telerin more eloquently than his native Noldorin, or that he could tie fishnets and design ships like his oldest brother made jewellery, to her he would always be Ingoldo, the Noldo, _her_ Noldo. No matter how much she had also come to see him as one of her own people, in her eyes he would always first and foremost belong to his own.

Those people, the remaining Noldor, were now dragging behind him in the darkness, hoping he could lead them back home, could help them find themselves again, when he himself didn’t even know where his home was and had no idea who he had been before, and thus had no idea where to look for either of those things for himself, let alone for others.

That thought, and the sight of the still smoking city of Alqualondë coming into view in the distance made him cling just a little bit tighter to the child in his arms, a violent storm raging in his mind, in stark contrast with the calm waves lapping at his boots. For the first time since he had turned around, turned his back on his brother and his children, he looked around. He looked at the solemn, expressionless faces of the people around him, at the still forms of children, sleeping in the arms of adults they had never known before, at the young elleth in his arms, brow creased into a frown, small hand tightly clutching the rough fabric of his cloak, and he opened his mouth to speak.

A thousand thoughts were raging through his mind, a thousand things he could say to them, wanted to call out to the waves, needed to scream at the sky, but he didn’t.

He closed his mouth again and kept silent. After all, what use was there in talking, in getting to know these people, in letting his heart out to them? Soon they would be back at Alqualondë. The Teleri would take their vengeance on them and then it would be over.

The pain, the exhaustion, it would all be over. The nightmare of losing his children, the images of burning Alqualondë, the gaping hole in his soul where Eärwen had closed off her mind from his own, it would all be gone.

He hoped their deaths would be quick. Not for himself, but for the children. He himself deserved to suffer, for everything he had done, and more importantly for what he hadn’t managed to do, but the children had not deserved this.

They had not deserved any of this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arafinwë and his people return to Alqualondë, have an altercation with the people, and a meeting with the king. Nothing goes as planned, punches are received, tears flow, and there is no end yet to the darkness that has swallowed them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry this update took so long... Uni has been eating me alive. I hope it's worth it :)

Arafinwë couldn’t say how long it took them to travel the last miles back to Alqualondë, but it felt like an eternity.

On this journey of despair the light of the stars, which had been a source of comfort to the Elves when they made the trek from Cuiviénen to Aman, seemed hollow and sinister instead. The eerie flickering of the Valacirca, still partly obscured by thick, black clouds of smoke, now felt like a mockery.

Arafinwë couldn’t say how long it took them to get close enough to the city to be able to see clearly the damage their now exiled kin had wrought, but when he did, for the first time since they had turned back, he stopped walking and stared.

Where once the beautiful, pearly-white Haven of Swans had been, now only blackened husks remained. Alqualondë, the city of his heart, his home, was gone, and with it a part of himself.

He wanted to scream, to rage, to cry, but he knew he couldn’t. He owed it to the people following him to be strong until the end. They looked to him for guidance, not so much with words, for still none of them had spoken any since they had started on the journey back, but with their actions. He owed it to them to be strong, to be the proper prince of Eldamar Nolofinwë had always wanted him to be.

As they stood there in the darkness, looking out upon the remnants of broken, burned Alqualondë, the adults among them couldn’t help but finally break their unspoken vow of silence, not with words, but with tears.

Soft sobs turned into quiet wails, turned into broken whimpers, and Arafinwë knew he owed it to them to be strong, even if they could not, especially if they could not.

He violently blinked the unspilled tears from his eyes.

“Let us hence,” he said, his voice, hoarse from disuse, sounding foreign to his ears. The soft Telerin lilt to his vowels that often came when he was sad or angry or in pain felt to him like a vicious mockery of reality.

They seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement on the way that they would return to the city their brothers and sisters had so ruthlessly wrecked. To apologize, even if there was no reason for the Teleri, _the Lindar_ , and their king, his own father-in-law, to forgive them.

Arafinwë couldn’t say he was afraid. Certainly not for himself, as in his own eyes he deserved to be punished as much as Fëanáro did. Not for killing, but for allowing the people of his heart to be killed by those of his blood.

If he was afraid at all, it was for the children, but not because he feared for their lives. If he had learned anything at all about the King of the Lindar during the years he’d spent living in Olwë’s city, it was that he was a just and compassionate king.

He would not allow the slaying of innocent children, not even if their parents might have brutally murdered his own.

If Arafinwë was afraid at all, it was for their future. He knew not what the children would be returned to in Tirion. He himself had known when he turned back that he would not see the city of his birth again, and he knew the other adults did too. Olwë might have some compassion left in his heart after all that had been done to him, but his people would not. They would demand revenge, and even Olwë, kind, gracious, gentle Olwë would not deny them what he knew they rightly deserved, _he_ rightly deserved.

The last short distance to the city they walked, once again, in silence. He had not ordered them to follow him, but they did nonetheless. Arafinwë didn’t know if they actually walked slower that last distance, or if time just bent around them to make it feel like they were going slower, but the eventual result was the same.

With a forced confidence in his steps he crossed the last metres to the city gate, pulling the child in his arms a little closer, and then he stood still.

The gate, what was left of it, was closed. Arafinwë had never seen it closed before, not since the first time he’d visited the Lindar. Usually open and welcoming, the busted silver doors were now reduced to a silent foreboding of the pain that was to come.

Arafinwë took in the sight of the broken gate, once the symbol of the kind acceptance the Lindar were known for and proud of, and then he rested his shoulder against the cool metal and pushed. For all its warped appearance, the gate easily swung open, designed to be opened and closed even if it had never really been meant to.

He hesitated for moment, and then he stepped inside.

Quietly they walked through the deserted streets. If not for the burn marks and the deadness that seemed to hang heavy in the air the city would have seemed almost peaceful.

Arafinwë couldn’t help but be reminded of the awe he’d felt when he had first visited Alqualondë as a child. For all that Alqualondë was younger and less architecturally diverse than ancient Tirion on Túna, and the Swan Haven’s pale white stone and sweeping arches had easily reminded him of the city of his birth, Alqualondë had always possessed a tranquillity and a sense of freedom that Tirion lacked.

He had instantly felt at home, something he hadn’t felt in Tirion in a long time.

He didn’t feel at home now, he couldn’t, not with the knowledge that it was his own family that had destroyed this place which held nearly all the good childhood memories he had. It pained him now, to remember. He could almost fool himself into thinking it was a different city he was walking through, not fair Alqualondë. It didn’t look like it had in his memories, covered in ash, the streets sullied with innocent blood spilt for an impossible cause.

He tried to close his mind to the memories, needed to distance himself so he wouldn’t break. That might have been easier if he hadn’t seen the shocked face of his brother-in-law lying dead, bled out on the quay. He remembered how Nénarion had looked at him when on his second visit to Alqualondë Arafinwë had dared to push him off the footbridge into the water. He remembered the altogether different look of shock on the younger elf’s face, and it brought tears to his eyes.

Arafinwë felt lost, adrift in a swirling river of emotions and memories he struggled to control, trying to stay strong, keeping up appearances for the sake of his people, but inside he was drowning.

They didn’t encounter anyone as they made their way into the city, and Arafinwë briefly wondered if the slaughter had been such that none had survived for them to find upon their return, but he knew it could not be so. He himself had been chased out of the city by Olwë and his two remaining sons, after the swan ships had already been commandeered by Fëanáro and his and Nolofinwë’s hosts had moved on as if they had not just committed the most vile crime in the history of Aman and beyond.

The closer they got to the harbour the more destruction they found. While the outer city had been cleared of the most gruesome reminders of death, the inner city had not been fully cleared just yet. Like in the outer city they found no bodies, but here dried blood still covered the paved walkways, and the pungent smell of death hung heavy in the air. Arafinwë wished he could spare his people the sight.

When they came upon Alqualondë on that fateful day the fighting had already been mostly over. He had sent his people on past the city and made his way inside on his own, needing to see for himself the evil his people had wrought. The sight did not hurt any less now than it had then.

As they made their way deeper into the seemingly empty city the silence was replaced by the sound of voices. Soft at first, barely audible, but there nonetheless, cutting through the curtains of the darkness with clarity, but so filled with despair that their sound did nothing to lift them.

Telerin mourning songs.

Arafinwë had heard them before, at the winter solstice, when the Teleri remembered those they had lost on the Great Journey from Cuiviénen. He remembered how he had stood next to his father-in-law, who had wrapped his arm around Arafinwë’s shoulders to comfort him as the songs took him back into the past to a place he had never been, and made him weep rivers of tears for people he had never known.

Arafinwë was so caught up in his memories that he didn’t notice them coming until the first stone hit his shoulder. He cried out as a sharp wave of pain made the fingers of his right hand tingle and go numb. His eyes went wide as he saw a swarm of faces coming towards him with expressions ranging from furious to vindictive. Behind him he felt his people hesitate. They had followed him into the city to die, but now that they were faced with that very possible reality instinct told them to flee.

He did not have time to find out the choice his people made, because suddenly he was in the middle of an angry crowd. He felt himself being pushed around by a swirling current of angry hands and accusing voices. He curled himself around the child in his arms to protect her as painful blows rained down on him. Clubs aimed at whatever part of him they could reach, kicks to his legs attempting to bring him down and make him an even easier target.

“Have mercy on the children,” he cried out, but his voice was lost in a storm of vengeful clamour.

An agonizing kick to his right knee made him loose his balance and drop to the ground. He caught himself on one hand and made to get back up when another kick to his ribs made him cry out in pain. Hunched over with the young orphan in his arms he struggled to breathe. With his eyes swimming and wave after wave of dizziness crashing over him, he barely noticed when the blows slowed and then stopped coming.

“Arafinwë?”

He looked up and between the black dots clouding his vision he recognized the face of the second prince of Alqualondë, his brother-in-law.

“Uinendil,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Arafinwë looked at him with pleading eyes, remembering the countless times they had played together on the shore.

“Take them to the palace,” the prince ordered with a voice like steel, “tell the king the traitors have returned.”

Arafinwë tried not to wince as he felt someone roughly grab his shoulders an pull him to his feet.

The remaining walk to the palace went by in a blur. Arafinwë could barely stand and had to be held upright and dragged along by two guards. A few times he tried to catch Uinendil’s gaze, but the Telerin prince studiously avoided looking at him. Eventually Arafinwë gave up and focused on breathing through the pain his bruised and broken ribs were causing.

The palace square looked nothing like it normally did. Normally a marketspace, it had now been turned into a refugee camp for those whose homes had been destroyed and made uninhabitable by the flames.

Arafinwë was acutely aware of the faces looking at him as they made their way through the crowd, the people gracefully stepping aside to let their prince through as he lead his newest catch across the square on their walk of shame.

When they reached the steps leading up to the palace Olwë was already waiting for them.

Like Uinendil, the king looked at him with hollow eyes, his brow creased in a frown. His clothes were plain, his long silver hair a mess of tangles, dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days -  and he probably hadn’t -, without a crown or circlet on his brow to signify his authority.

And yet there was something in his stance that made it clear to anyone that this simple Teler in dirty work-clothes with the blood of his fallen people still caked under his nails and on his boots had more sense of what it meant to be a king in his left thumb than Fëanáro had had in whole his body.

Arafinwë looked at the king standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the palace and he realized for the first time that the king stood alone. He scanned the row of guards lined up at the top of the steps and saw Eärrámë, the king’s youngest son, among them, but he did not see the queen, nor did he see the king’s heir, Falatirion.

He tried not to falter in his step as a sharp pain shot through his skull and he briefly had a vision of Eärwen standing on the steps of the palace in Tirion, waiting for him like her father stood waiting for him now. The knowledge that she might never forgive him tore at Arafinwë’s heart.

They came to a halt a few metres from where the king stood. A deadly silence hung over the square, and Arafinwë realized Olwë was waiting for him to make the first move.

For the first time since they had turned around he gently lowered the child in his arms to the ground. She whimpered and clung to him and for a few tense seconds her muffled cries were the only sound in the square, but then she let him go, as if she knew that Arafinwë’s next actions would decide her own future.

With his hands raised in a placating gesture he approached the king. Arafinwë kept his eyes on the ground and his shoulders hunched when he knelt before him. Only then did he raise his eyes to meet the king’s gaze.

“Your majesty, I-“ he was cut off when the king’s fist forcefully connected with his jaw and he was forced to jump to his feet and take a step back not to be sent sprawling. Behind him he heard the child crying out for him.

Arafinwë gasped and raised a hand to his face, now throbbing with the promise of a spectacular bruise. He tentatively looked up and was surprised to find the king not looking at him in anger, but with sorrowful eyes filled with unspilled tears.

“Hinya…”

Suddenly Olwë’s arms were around him and Arafinwë found his face buried in the king’s tangled silver hair. He could feel the king’s hands shaking where they rested on his back and at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Arafinwë whispered, and that was all it took to break the king’s resolve. He felt a hand sneak into his hair as Olwë’s shoulders hunched and he bowed his head and cried into his son-in-law’s, _the traitor’s_ , shoulder.

Arafinwë wrapped his arms around the king, his bruised body loudly protesting the movement, and pulled his father-in-law as close as he could while grief-stricken sobs wracked the king’s body.

Standing there, in the broken city he used to call his home, with the people of his heart looking at him with expressions ranging from hatred to disgust, with their king sobbing in his arms, Arafinwë thought of all that had been lost, all that had been broken and he wondered how the Lindar’s revenge, how his death could ever set this right.

Standing there Arafinwë closed his eyes and finally allowed his own tears to flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will, among other things, see Arafinwë and Olwë having a much-needed conversation about revenge, justice and reparations.   
> Sit tight, this might take a while again, if so my apologies.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Arafinwë wakes up, has some less than pleasant conversations, and a look into a mirror prompts a symbolic decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised this chapter would continue to move the story forward, and that Arafinwë would talk with Olwë in this, but the muse had other ideas... The next chapter will see that happen though, but I thought this one would get overly long if I were to put in everything I originally wanted to be in it. So instead here's some introspection, some memories, and some symbolism.  
> P.S. I changed the rating of the story for this opening scene, just in case...

He was running. Down white-tiled streets, past shops, over bridges. He ran after the princess, his princess, who was yelling at him that if he were this slow on land, how could he ever hope to be a match for her brothers in the upcoming swimming competition. He laughed and threw in a bit more effort. The game wouldn’t be fun if he didn’t make it last.

He ran, and ran, and kept running, following Eärwen’s laughter, nearly colliding with a shopkeeper who shot him an annoyed glare and yelled at him to mind his feet.

In Tirion it would have been scandalous for a prince of the realm to be caught playing on the streets like a commoner. In Tirion he could never go out into the city unsupervised, without guards watching his every step. In Tirion no shopkeeper would ever yell at him like that, lest they cause offence and rouse the ire of their king.

But the Lindar were not so set in their ways. Here in Alqualondë he was free. Free from the burden of being a prince, free from the constant watchful gaze of the royal guards, free to be himself without fear of anyone thinking him lesser than his brothers.

He ran, chasing Eärwen through white-tiled streets that suddenly weren’t so white anymore. When he looked up he found he wasn’t chasing anymore, but he was being chased instead.

He ran, and ran, the screams of the dying in his ears, the smoke of burning buildings filling his lungs. He rounded a corner and ran towards the city gates, a lone figure standing in front of them. As he came closer he recognized the face of Nénarion.

But Nénarion was dead. He’d seen the second-youngest prince of Alqualondë lying bled out on the quay, yet here he stood.

Before Arafinwë even knew what he was doing he had raised his sword, suddenly out of its scabbard and in his hand, and he watched the prince’s gentle smile turn into an expression of pain and shock as he plunged his sword into his chest.

Arafinwë tried to step back, but he couldn’t let go of the sword, and then Nénarion grabbed at his hand and pulled him close, impaling himself on the sword to the hilt, blood spilling from his mouth as he choked.

Arafinwë watched in horror as the prince’s look of pain morphed into a crazed smile. He tried to pull the sword back but Nénarion grabbed a hold of his shoulder with bruising strength and leaned in to whisper in his ear:

“You will never be free now, your Highness…”

And suddenly he was drowning. There was blood on his hands, on his clothes, in his hair. It pooled at his feet and dragged him down like quicksand.

_You will never be free now…_

He tried to pull himself out, clawing at the empty air, screaming for help that he knew wouldn’t come.

_Your Highness…_

He bolted upright, eyes wide in terror, breathing in short panting gasps.

It was dark, only candles illuminating the room, but he was clean. There was no blood.

A dream then.

He laid back down.

Then the events of the previous day came flooding back.

It had felt like an eternity that he had stood there, in the square, with the king in his arms, but eventually Olwë had straightened, barely looking him in the eye, and given the order that a temporary place to stay be found for Arafinwë’s people, and that he himself be led to his usual room in the palace.

His people.

Arafinwë bolted upright again.

Where were they? What had happened to the child he had carried all the way here? Why had Olwë sent him here instead of executing him on the spot?

He made to get out of bed, but suddenly the pain from his injuries became stronger than his panic and he doubled over, gasping for breath.

“Don’t move too much, you have four broken ribs at least.”

He instantly recognized her voice.

Falanyeldë, queen of Alqualondë.

Arafinwë looked up at the queen, sitting in a chair by the side of the bed. She looked just as tired and worn as her husband had when he’d met the king in the square. Her normally shining, dark-grey hair tangled, her eyes red-rimmed, her face drawn.

The queen had always been more difficult to read than her husband. Olwë was good at hiding his emotions, but very few people could hide their thoughts from Arafinwë. Scanning the surface of someone’s thoughts was as natural to Arafinwë as reading people’s body-language. The queen however was similarly gifted. She too had visions of the future. She too could hear people’s thoughts as clearly as if they were speaking aloud. It had drawn him close to her in the end, because she understood what no one else could, but it had unnerved him at first. Unlike other people, she wasn’t an open book to him. She could close off her mind like he could, could close her mind to him, as she was doing now.

“Lie back down, you have pulled your stitches.”

Arafinwë looked down and found his shoulder bleeding, but the rest of his body was so bruised and sore he barely felt this one injury.

Falanyeldë moved to sit on the edge of the bed and got to work on cleaning the wound and stitching it closed once more. Arafinwë tried not to wince as she pressed the wet cloth and pulled on the thread little harder than she had to. A little less gentle than she had been with the others whose wounds she had cleaned and stitched up in the past days. Arafinwë couldn’t begrudge her that.

He wanted to say something, but the queen beat him to it:

“Why did you return?”

Arafinwë had expected the question, but he was not prepared to answer it. He closed his eyes. The words stuck in his throat. Why had he returned?

“To repair what was broken, to repent,” he whispered after a moment of contemplative silence.

“And do you think you can? Repair this?”

Her words cut him to the core. He tried to open his mouth to form the words of an apology, but he knew that nothing he could say would ever be good enough. As far as he knew, the queen had lost two of her sons to the slaughter.

“Three,” she said, having read his mind.

He looked at her in surprise. Had Uinendil or Eärrámë died after all?

“Amil?” he whispered, knowing she had heard the unspoken question.

“Please do not call me that. Not now.”

And he understood.

He had not thought of how it would be for her, to have to look at the prince of the Noldor she had so long counted among her sons, had to hear him call her ‘mother’, when his family had murdered two of the sons she had birthed.

Olwë had called him his child twice since the massacre, but Arafinwë wondered now if he’d really meant it.

“We will have breakfast brought to you here, but my husband has requested your presence in his study afterwards to discuss reparations.”

Reparations.

She veritably spit the word at him. She knew as well as he did that not even his death could repair this, and yet he still resolved to offer it to the king.

The queen got up from her chair and moved to the door. She halted in the doorway as if she was looking for something to say.

“Thank you for the stitches,” Arafinwë whispered, barely audible.

She closed the door behind her without a reply.

Breakfast was indeed brought to him. A young elleth with dark curly hair whom he recognized from an earlier visit to Alqualondë, came in with a tray in her hands. She kept her eyes resolutely on the floor, but when Arafinwë leant forward to lift a glass of water off the nightstand so she could put it down he managed to look her in the eyes. Those bright, grey eyes were large and held a depth of sorrow that no one so young should ever have to know.

Arafinwë tried to smile kindly at her, but she averted her eyes too quickly to notice.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She startled at the sound of his voice. He had spoken to her before, when things were different, better. When the Trees still lived and the city had been filled with joyful hymns of praise to the sea instead of tearful mourning songs. His voice must have sounded different to her then. Soft. Softer than the voice of a traitor and brother of a murderer had any right to be. He had complimented her on the beads in her hair, knowing that his beloved Eärwen had put them there. He had made her laugh. She had smiled at him in a way Arafinwë was convinced only the Lindar could.

Now she stepped away, making her way to the open door.

She still wore beads in her hair, but she didn’t smile.

It pained Arafinwë to know that it was his family that had robbed her of her joy.

“I wish things were different.”

His words seemed to hit a wall, bouncing back to him and garnering no response. She still didn’t look at him. One of her hands moved to tug nervously on one of her beaded braids.

She seemed to hesitate. Arafinwë could see she wanted to say something. He could hear it. Her thoughts were louder than any words she could have spoken.

_They’re gone. All gone. My atto, by brothers. And yet you are here… Why? How could they do this? How could the Valar desert us? I wish you were dead instead of them. I would kill you with my own hands if it would bring them back. I wish you were dead instead. I wish you were dead. I wish you were._

“I do too, I will be soon.”

Again she startled. This time she did look at him, knowing he’d heard her thoughts.

“With the Trees dead, we will all starve soon, your Highness.”

With that she turned around and silently closed the door behind her.

Getting up was harder than he had anticipated. His whole body ached, ribs screaming at him to stop moving. Leaning on a bedpost, then on the back of a chair, he slowly made his way to the closet, where he picked out some clothing he had left behind on his last visit.

Arafinwë felt like he was moving around in a dream. The world around him seemed muted, unreal. Not three months ago he had woken up in this room, picked an outfit from this closet, had breakfast with the royal family. He and Eärwen, along with their children and all four of Eärwen’s brothers had spent the day on the beach, swimming and collecting sea-shells, building sand-castles and watching them be destroyed by the waves. Now that happiness, the peace that should in Valinor have been eternal, seemed far-away and intangible.

He stood in front of the mirror to get dressed. Looking at his own reflection, he barely recognized himself. Though he was taller than either of his brothers, he had always looked more fragile. Now more than ever.

Arafinwë gently traced his fingertips across the ugly bruises covering much of his chest and shoulders. Like his brothers, he too had been trained to work in the forge. He too carried the strength needed to mould tough, unyielding metal into a thing of beauty. But in him it never showed. He remained lithe and dainty, looking more like the kindly poet his Vanyarin blood called for him to be than the strong prince his parents had always hoped he’d grow into.

He gently moved his fingers down his chest, across his abdomen, to rest on his hip, where a bruise coloured his warm copper skin a dark purple.

Growing up, Arafinwë had always wished he had had Nolofinwë’s hair. While his visions made life difficult, that at least was something he could hide. His golden-blond Vanyarin hair, bouncing around his face in frizzy curls, and his two-coloured eyes set him apart from his brothers even more than his build. Findis had always told him to be proud of his hair. _An elf’s hair is their most prized possession._ She never cut hers, neither had their father.

Arafinwë hissed in pain as he pressed on the bruised skin of his hip, hoping he would wake up in his bedroom in Tirion and find that none of this had happened. But when he moved to pull his tunic over his head and saw in his reflection the tired bags under his eyes he knew that this was only the beginning.

Once dressed he moved back over to the nightstand, his body protesting as much as it had when he just got up. He rummaged around in the top drawer until he found what he was looking for.

He was surprised to find that Olwë hadn’t ordered his guards to check his room for items that could be used as weapons.

With a pair of scissors in his hand he made his way back to the mirror. For a while he looked at himself, hesitating. Then he took a tuft of hair in one hand and with a single fluid motion he cut it off as close to the scalp as he dared. Without hesitation this time, he moved on to the next tuft of hair.

He didn’t look in the mirror when he was done. He dropped the scissors on the bed and without looking back he made his way to the door.

Olwë was waiting for him. His own people were waiting.

He had run away from the city after the massacre, he had run away from the march after the Doom was spoken, he had run away in his dream. But he was done running. He was done being a coward.

He didn’t know what his last days, or hours, would look like, but there was one thing he did know.

He would meet his end with his head held high.

He would never truly be their king, but he would lead his people with all the strength, and with what little honour he had left.

His people were waiting.

But the waiting would be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise the next chapter will be up this quick, but I'll try as best as I can. Please leave a review if you liked this one :)

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to continue this story when I have time. The idea for it came from a scene I dreamt about where Arafinwë returns to Alqualondë after he turns back, I plan to get him there, and to have him crowned in Tirion before the end of ths story, please be patient.  
> If you liked this chapter please leave a review, let me know I'm writing this for someone other than myself :)


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